Carry that Weight
by tlttmn
Summary: The healing process is never easy, and nobody knows that better than Detective Emilia Petrov. What she didn't know was that helping someone else through would turn out to be even harder. Eventual F/OC. Rated T for language. Post "Pay Up."
1. Behind Blue Eyes

**A/N: Well, I've got a CSI fic, a CSI: Miami fic (however little action it has seen lately)... I figure it's about time to round out the trifecta. I am a fan of writing OCs, mainly because they give me a little more freedom to play with personality without changing too much in established characters. I do try desperately to make them believable and not "Mary Sues" or whatever they're called, so I hope you end up liking her as a character. I am trying a few new things this time around, first and foremost, I'm going to try first person a bit with this one. Secondly, I'm centering it on an existing character that is not necessarily my favorite (I'm more of a Hawkes kind of girl), so that alone should pose a nice writing challenge. Lastly, instead of being episodic like my others, I am really going to try to keep this as one continuous story instead of a whole bunch of vignettes smashed together.**

**This begins in Season 6, somewhere between the episode 6X4 - Dead Reckoning and episode 6x8 - Cuckoo's Nest. Probably closer to Cuckoo's Nest. CSI: NY seems to like to play fast and loose with the time continuum, so let's just say 6 months after "Pay Up"**

**Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to be affiliated with CSI: New York, or anything associated with the franchise. I do own my character, but nothing else.**

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My neon striped socks looked out of place against the worn brown leather of his couch. I squeezed my knees tighter to my chest as I reached down and began to pick at a stray thread over my toe. Anything to avoid looking across the coffee table and into those eyes. I knew what I'd find there, and I didn't want to see it. I'm the one who should be worried about him, not the other way around, and it made me feel guilty.

I really don't know what made me come over here in the first place. The second I heard his voice float through my phone speaker with a peace offering of pizza and beer, I knew what would be waiting for me. And yet, here I was, crunched into a corner of his couch, his eyes following my every move, concern swirling in electric blue.

I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't have even hinted. He was a detective for Christ's sake. I knew better than to think he wouldn't immediately look up my file to find out what I had referenced. It's not like I wouldn't have done the same.

"Emmie..."

My name sounded odd in his voice. He had never used my first name before, not even to mention shorten it from Emilia. I had been "Petrov" to him since we started working together three months ago. No matter how many times I used his first name, tried to foster a friendship, a proper partnership, it was still always my last name. I had expected the resistance, I guess, considering everything Danny had told me had happened.

"Emmie..."

There it was again, more insistent on my attention. It sounded bizarre. I tried to ignore it and instead continued to be fascinated by my socks.

"Emmie, I'm so sorry."

"Why would you be sorry? Did you shoot him?"

My voice had had more of an edge than I had intended it to. God, what was wrong with me? The last thing he needed to deal with right now was a pissy partner. I risked a glace over as I was met with silence. My abruptness had startled him: his mouth was hanging slightly open.

After a second, he answered. "No... I guess not." he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head for a moment. "I did act like a royal douchebag though."

I sighed. "No you didn't. You had no way of knowing."

"Still."

"Still, nothing, Don." The thread I was playing with finally came free. I began rolling it in between my fingers. "Its part of the process. I guarantee you that I said far worse things to people while I was working through everything." I heard the soft deflation of the chair as he thudded back into it. "I was just lucky enough not to have said them to anyone who actually did understand. Or I guess I was unlucky enough."

I paused, placing the little threadball on the coffee table and swinging my legs down into a proper sitting position. "It would have been nice to have someone to walk me through, you know?" I looked up, pointedly catching his eyes. My breath hitched. The raw emotion I found threw me a little. As if his eyes didn't do that normally.

He broke eye contact and looked towards the window. "Yea..."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands clasped in front of me. "Listen, Don. I get it. I really do."

He shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with me shifting the focus onto him.

I continued anyway. "If you ever need someone to talk to, I won't judge. I've been there. I know."

His eyes remained fixed on the window. I had pushed him too far. Too much too soon, I suppose.

After a moment of silence, I stood up, grabbing two empty beer bottles and my sock string ball from the table and made my way to the garbage.

"I should get going. We've got early shift in the morning."

He stood, grabbing the two remaining bottles and placing them on the counter. We finished tiding our mess in silence.

When the bottles were disposed of, and the pizza box thrown away, he followed me to the door, ready to see me out. It wasn't until I had my coat on that he spoke. His voice was barely audible. "Do they ever go away?"

I stopped mid-step. "Do what go away?"

"The flashbacks."

I took a deep breath. Muzzle flash. Crimson on white. One empty green eye. I couldn't lie to him.

"No, Don. They don't."

Our eyes met again, the pain in those big beautiful orbs of his making me wince. God I wished I could make it all better for him somehow. But there was nothing I could do or say that would fix this. All I could do was be there if he wanted to talk, offer assurance that this was normal, do what he would let me. I spoke again, breaking eye contact and looking down at my now shoe covered feet. "They just hurt less over time."

We stood in silence for about a minute before one side of his mouth quirked up. It couldn't be called a smile, and my heart broke at the sight.

"Thanks, Emmie, and I'm sorry."

"No need for thanks or apology. It's simply what partners do." Another pause. One last look into those eyes, and I felt that familiar prickle behind my own. I knew I had to go. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Yea. See ya..."

As he closed the door behind me, I heard the sound of his body thudding against it and sliding down to the floor. I almost turned back, wanting so badly to go in and throw my arms around his huddled, lanky form. To go in and let him cry on my shoulder, get all of the hurt out. To help him go back to the Don Flack that the labbies had all told me about.

But I didn't. And he wouldn't. Greif just didn't work that way.

So I plodded home through the rain, burdened with new tragedy; his hollowed, devastated eyes added to the list of images that would never leave me.

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please, please, please let me know what you think in a review!


	2. Communication Breakdown

**A/N: Installment two! Enjoy and please please please review and let me know what you think!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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"Three creams, two sugars, right?"

I jumped slightly as a large Starbucks cup was set in front of me, Flack's gruff voice drawing my attention up from the phone records I was pouring through. "Yes..." I answered. My eyes shifted from the coffee up to his face, slightly suspicious, and slightly startled that he had ever noticed how I take my coffee. Those startling blue eyes of his were bloodshot, dark bags hanging beneath them. He clearly hadn't shaved, his shirt was wrinkled... Looked like he had gotten about as much sleep as I had after our night of pizza, beer, and confessions: none. I must say, though, he wore "exhausted" far better than I did. He looked good with stubble.

"What gives?" I pushed a blonde lock of hair out of my eyes and put my pen down as I spoke.

"What gives what?" He dropped himself into his chair across from me, swinging his feet up on top of his side of our conjoined desks and taking a swig of his own coffee. His eyes closed as he swallowed.

"What gives with the RAK?"

He gave me a blank stare. "RAK?"

"Random Act of Kindness." No response. I tried again, picking up the cup and gesturing a la Vanna White for emphasis. "The coffee?"

He shrugged and used his elevated feet to swivel his chair a bit. "What, I can't get my partner coffee?"

"Not when you've spent the last three months making it clear that you'd rather be paired with a meal worm."

"Everyone has the right to change their opinion. What have you got there?"

"Blair Burrow's phone records for the three months before she was killed. Don't change the subject." I narrowed my eyes at him, half hoping to get an admission of assholery out of him for the past three months. He had been downright rude when we started working together, the idea of being partnered with anyone clearly distasteful to him, even if it was only half of the time.

It had gotten better as time went on, but until last night, I was still having to bust my ass to get him to treat me like a colleague instead of an annoyance. To him, I was just some blonde Barbie doll who wanted to play detective. Never mind that this blonde Barbie doll had three years as a homicide detective in Philly and prior to that, two as a ballistics CSI and two as a NYC patrol cop under her belt. Yea, all that didn't matter.

At first I had just thought he was a plain old misogynist. I mean, there certainly are enough of them left in this field, and I've faced my fair share of them. But then one day while I was putting in my labbie hours in ballistics, he came up in conversation, and I offhandedly asked the Messers what his problem was. The married duo exchanged a look before Danny explained to me what had gone on with Det. Angell.

Personal information about colleagues was clearly one of the perks to being half labbie half homicide detective. The labbies seem far more willing to gossip. Or just far more friendly. Could really be either. Or both. But anyway, I eased my opinions of Flack up a bit after that... he was clearly still working through it. But it didn't make being paired with him while he did so any less harrowing. I was just hoping our heart to heart last night had altered that a little.

"I'm not changing the subject. I'm just getting to work." He dropped his legs from the desktop, leaning forward and gesturing for me to hand him the records. "Lemme see those."

I obliged him, opting to get a start on that coffee he had provided. Fresh eyes on that file certainly wouldn't hurt. I had been there going through it for two hours already, having given up the fight against insomnia. If I couldn't sleep, might as well get some work done, you know?

He took the file, leaning back as he opened it. "And for the record, I think you're far more competent than a meal worm."

"Comforting."

As we fell into silence, the buzz of the precinct almost seemed to get louder around us to fill the void. I was starting to feel a little awkward. The fact that neither of us brought up last night was making me wary. Should I say something? Or should I just ignore it, pretend that it never happened... Let the unspoken hang over us like a cloud as we sat there at our paired desks, face to face and avoiding eye contact.

Flack saved me from making a decision by speaking first. Or rather, sighing first. He seemed broken as he dropped the file onto his blotter and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Listen, Em."

I see he at least hadn't reverted to the laced-with-distaste-but-oh-so-professional last name. That was a good sign... I think... But really, it hadn't really been the insistence on using my last name that had bothered me. That's a kind of cop thing to do... I guess it was the clear disdain with which he said it. In any case, both the last name and the disdain were non-existent now.

He continued, bringing my attention back to him. "I'm really sorry I blew like that yesterday..."

"I told you last night, you don't need to-" I was cut off with a hand.

"I'm not good at this apologizing stuff, so just let me finish." He paused, making sure I wasn't going to interrupt.

"Fine. Go ahead." I leaned back in my chair and pretended to zip my mouth shut.

After a moment of squinty observation he decided it was safe to continue. "As I was saying. I'm sorry I blew like that yesterday. BUT," he paused again, eyeing me to make sure I kept my word not to say anything until he was finished. "...I'm glad we got the chance to talk through it last night. I've been a pretty shitty partner, Em. I should have been worried about having your back like you have mine, and I wasn't, and that sucks."

I raised my eyebrows, unsure of how to handle this. I wasn't expecting a full out apology. Maybe a simple, "Yea, I was a dick," but not this. Flack just simply hadn't seemed like the type to admit he had been wrong.

But maybe that was just the Don Flack I thought I knew. Because God knows that the Don Flack I thought I knew wouldn't have sat rapt and understanding as I spilled my personal demons to him last night, nor would he have reciprocated at all. And yet, look what happened.

"Bottom line is you're a damn fine detective." His right hand was absently fiddling with a paperclip as he spoke. "And its about time I started treating you like you are."

I searched his eyes for any sign that this was bullshit, because it sounded rehearsed. Too perfect. I found nothing but sincerity. In fact, the earnestness made his eyes even more captivating than normal, and I had to stop myself from going any further down that road of thought. It was completely inappropriate considering the circumstances.

"So, what you're saying is no more treating me like Detective Barbie?"

His eyebrows furrowed and his nose wrinkled. "Detective Barbie? I never called you that. I'm way more creative."

"Good to know."

"But yea, no more 'Detective Barbie' treatment." He smirked slightly as he put finger quotes around the doll name. "Psh. Detective Barbie. Who says that?"

My own lips curled up, mimicing his expression. I stayed silent. No need to ruin a perfectly good apology by pointing out he had turned to Mac the day he met me and called me that exact thing, right? I let out a slight chuckle at the thought, and when I met his eyes across our desks his smirk broadened into an almost smile and his eyebrows shot closer to his hairline. He remembered plenty well.

I laughed. "You're an ass, you know that Don?"

He just shrugged and returned wordlessly to Blair Burrow's phone records. I leaned back in my chair, grabbing the rest of the Burrow file, ready to go through her known contacts and the photos the labbies had sent over yesterday. One last glance across the desks revealed him to be deep in concentration, highlighter in hand, its cap hanging from his teeth. I couldn't help but think that things were going to get better bit by bit. That he was finally starting to really deal with his shit.

I should have known better. It doesn't work that way, and I knew it.

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**A/N: Hope you liked it! Please let me know what you thought!**


	3. Levee's Goin'a Break

**A/N: This chapter was kind of difficult for me to write, as dialogue is one of my stronger points, and there's not really a lot of it in here. BUT, hopefully, I pulled it off. Please let me know what you think of it in a review! And most importantly, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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"Flack's in the wind."

Danny's voice brought my sight snapping up from the bullet casing I had just scooped up with my tweezers. "What the fuck do you mean, Flack's in the wind?"

The blonde man's frown deepened, and he started to do that twitchy thing of his... crossing and uncrossing his arms, rubbing his jaw, leaning against the door of the lab before quickly shifting his weight. "I mean he's missing. He never showed up for shift today."

"And he didn't call in?" I don't even know why I asked that. I already knew the answer.

"Not a word. You heard anything?"

I began to pack the casing back into an evidence envelope, trying to concentrate on procedure to keep my mind from conjuring up all the awful images that were now floating around my consciousness. Don in a gutter, bloody and beaten. Don face down in the East River. Don bits splattered all over the pavement. All seemed so ridiculous... like such an over-reaction. But for some reason I couldn't seem to dismiss them.

"He was perfectly fine when I talked to him last night." I ignored the raised eyebrows I was getting from Messer as my mind started racing. He _had_ sounded like he was fine when I called him to let him know I got put on lab duty for today, right?

Maybe this was no big deal. Maybe he had just overslept. Or gotten sick! That's it. He must have gotten sick. Conked out before he could call. Things had been going too well... they had gotten so good the past few weeks after we cleared the air. I had started to see more and more of the Flack that the labbies had all told me he used to be. He had seemed better. There's no way this was a big deal, right? There had to be an explanation.

"Maybe he got sick. Have you checked his apartment?" Even as the question left my mouth I couldn't let myself believe my rationalization. And given the state Danny was in, he couldn't either. I could all but see the same gruesome images floating behind his own eyes. There was something else there too, though... a certain amount of acceptance. As if he'd seen the storm a'brewin, and knew this was all coming. Seen something I had tried desperately not to see.

"Yea, I was just over there. Place was a mess. Booze bottles everywhere."

My heartbeat accelerated, Danny's words confirming what I had been afraid of. "What about-"

Danny cut me off, finishing my thought. "His service pistol? It was there."

We looked at each other in silence for a moment. That fact should have made us feel better. But we both knew damn well that he had a spare hidden somewhere. We all did. And judging from Danny's silence, he had no idea where Don kept the extra piece.

"I figured I should come and let you know, being his partner and all."

The word "partner" triggered crushing guilt. I _was_ his partner. I was supposed to be keeping tabs on him. Keeping my eyes open for warning signs. Especially since I had been there before. Since I knew first hand that the worse it gets, the better you get at hiding it. "Yea..."

"Listen, I'm about to go check his usual bars. If he's not there, I'm going to trawl the ERs."

I sighed and all but collapsed onto the stool behind me, removing my glasses and rubbing my eyes, already bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Listen, if you don't find him, call me before you start searching hospitals. I'll come help." I examined the mascara I wiped from my lower eyelids, remnants of a bad date the night before. "As his partner I should probably be there if it turns out he got himself killed."

Danny flinched at my last word. I had dared to vocalize what nobody else had yet, apparently. "Yea, okay. I'll let you know."

I slid my glasses back on and crossed my arms as I watched Danny close the glass door behind him and make his way down the hallway. With a few clicks of the mouse, I set the bullet stria running through IBIS, barely aware of what I was doing. Images of all the terrible things that could be happening right then kept floating to mind. I was torn between disbelief, terror, and disappointment all at the same time.

Everything had just seemed to be going so well. After we got everything out in the open, after he apologized for being such a dick the first few months, it had just seemed like he had gone back to that person I had kept hearing about. That person I couldn't bring myself to believe existed before then. He was witty, funny, amicable... We had started to form a partnership as I had always been taught it should be. Friends on top of colleagues. It simply leads to more efficient policing along with a safer working environment.

And I had thought that we managed to develop that. We had certainly bonded enough for me to consider him a friend outside of work. He started joining me and the labbies when we'd grab a drink after shift, something he had apparently stopped doing when I started working with them. We laughed, we argued over banal things like hockey (he couldn't believe I was a Penguins fan when I had been born and bred in Ranger country), and we had genuinely started to enjoy working with each other. Or, at least I had.

The new Don Flack that I had gotten to know in the past few weeks was not only a good cop and a good partner, but a good friend as well. My mind conjured up the day I mentioned that I was planning to start to date for the first time since moving back to the city. He had looked over with a frown and given me a sweet, slightly concerned warning about the New York dating scene. He had even offered to be my automatic out in case a date went bad. Just one quick text message and he'd come barge in, letting me make my escape under guise of work. Or if the guy turned out to really be a creeper, under the guise of jilted and dangerous cop boyfriend with a gun.

A chuckle escaped my lips as I remembered pulling that last option off last week. He had been pretty convincing, pretending to notice us at the bar and storming over eyes flashing. As he alternated between threatening my date and telling me to, "Let's go," he had his hand placed strategically on his hip pulling his coat back just enough to expose his badge and the hilt of his gun. It was brilliant.

I got him to own up to a high school drama class after that one. He kept making excuses as we sat on my couch after my rescue, finishing my last two bottles of Guinness and catching the end of the Rangers game. Said he only took it because he knew he was going into the academy, and it might have helped him in interrogations. I accused him of wanting to be the next Kenneth Branaugh. He spouted a few lines of Hamlet in response, Keanu Reeves style.

The urgent sounding beep of IBIS finding a match brought me back to the present and I stood up to retreive the results from the printer.

I guess I had gotten too comfortable. Trusted his word too much and allowed myself to believe he was fine too readily. Come to think of it, there had still been an edge. An anger that would come out in interrogations that maybe hadn't been there before. Or that had, before Angell's death, been only manufactured for the benefit of the unlucky bastard sitting at that table. But the only reason I even was aware that it might be real, and that the real anger was not the norm was because of small, offhanded comments by Stella or Danny. And those small comments were just too easy to ignore.

I began to pack up the ballistics evidence from this case, putting the file to the side to give to Stella later. Nothing left to do now but keep working until Danny called. And I knew he would. I'd be going through every ER in the city soon enough.

I grabbed the next evidence envelope on the pile, opening it's matching file and brushing another image of disaster out of my mind. Just keep working, Em. Keep your mind on the evidence until your phone rings.

Just keep working...

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed, and as always, please review and let me know what you thought!**


	4. How Many Friends

**A/N: And, here we go again! I'm finding this whole "continuous plot line" thing makes getting the next chapter started and finished much easier than with my more episodic things. As usual, I hope you enjoy, and PLEASE PLEASE leave me some love in the reviews! (Or hate, if you feel that strongly! Just review!)**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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I looked old.

I looked old, tired, and beaten down, and frankly? I didn't give one iota of a shit. My normally shiny strawberry-blonde hair looked dank and dirty pulled back into a pony tail, escaped strands clinging limply to my round face. The bags under my eyes were made darker as my mascara continued to migrate from the night before. Blue-grey eyes were bloodshot behind what Don had once called my "Sarah Palin" glasses. Dry, cracked lips were set into a deep frown. And to top it all off, you could see the yellowing edges of the bruise I got taking down that O'Reiley bastard last week peaking out from the neckline of my green sweater. I pulled my shirt away from my shoulder a bit, absently wondering how it was healing.

"We look like we belong in this place more than this guy does, eh?" Danny's voice brought my attention away from my reflection in the elevator door. He was gesturing to the sleeping man in the wheelchair next to us. The nurse in charge of him face tensed a little and she busied herself with the IV bag hanging next to him.

I shrugged. He was right. The two of us looked like shit. If it wasn't for the badges and guns hanging off our belts, we could have easily been mistaken for patients... A drug addict and his battered girlfriend, maybe? The bags under our eyes were dark enough, our faces drawn enough, and I had that nice old bruise on my collarbone. A dark sounding laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. At least wheelchair guy looked well rested.

The doors swung open at the next floor, and the nurse gave us a tense nod before wheeling our buddy out.

Danny snorted. "I'm pretty sure that's not the floor she pressed when she got on."

"Nope. We scared her off, Messer."

"Can you blame 'er?"

I sighed. This was hospital number five, and thank god, we hadn't found Flack yet. We had just been sent up to the surgical wing by a nurse who remembered a John Doe that fit his description when both our phones vibrated, a text message from Mac allowing us to relax. So back to the car we were going.

"Found him. He's safe. Will call later." It had said, and as I read the words, I got the chance to watch myself physically deflate in the metal of the elevator doors. The stress had been keeping me running, and now that it was gone, I just looked... haggard. Danny didn't look much better. We were hot messes, only without the hot part.

"No, Danny, I honestly can't."

We finished the elevator ride in silence, both of us too busy trying to resist the crash that comes from being so nervous and stressed for so long. Just concentrate on that next step, and one more after that... the car seats seemed miles away. And if it was that hard for me, I can't even imagine what Danny was handling. He was only just recently off the cane normally, never mind after stress like this.

The silence wasn't broken until we were approaching the car. "I'm going to kick his ass next time I see him."

I glanced over to my side with a snort as I reached for my door, flopping down into the fake leather sanctuary. God, the crappy cruiser bucket seats had never felt this comfortable. "No, you won't."

Danny sighed and tapped the roof of the car as he moved to the drivers side. "Yea, I know." He flopped down next to me and we both closed our doors. "But I bet you will."

"Maybe." And maybe I would. Then again, maybe I'd just burst into tears like a crazy person. You know, it's bizarre considering how long I've been at this job, and how good I am at it... I really don't handle stress well.

We just sat for a moment, trying to gather our bearings enough to continue on, face the fact that we still had work to return to. That we couldn't just drop the car off and be on our way home, him to his bouncing baby girl and sympathetic wife, and I to my lovely galoot of a dog and reruns of I Love Lucy. God forbid our job lets us relax after something like this. We still had a serial killer to catch before we got that luxury.

I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes again. A black streak of mascara came off on my fingers and I sighed. I swear the stuff was growing on my lashes. Whatever. That was the nice thing about lab duty. The guns don't care if I had raccoon eyes.

"Hey, Em."

I looked over to my left and saw Danny putting the keys in the ignition. "Hey, what?"

He turned the car on, but just sat back, making no move to put it into drive. "You and Don have gotten pretty close, huh?"

"Well, I had thought so. Apparently I was wrong." I let my head fall against the headrest. Otherwise he would have told me something was wrong, right? This whole goddamn situation could have been avoided if that was as true as I had thought. I had really thought we had bonded, that he had trusted me after finding out I knew exactly where he was coming from. But I guess I had thought wrong.

Danny ran a hand over his face and looked at me for a moment. "Just do me a favor, okay?"

I raised an eyebrow. Where was he going with this? "Yeah?"

"Just... don't give up on him." His words hung heavy in the air for a moment. "Me and Linds, we've had our own shit to deal with lately, yuh know? And he trusts you. More than he's trusted anyone in a long time."

"I doubt that."

My phone rang, a blessing in the form of Maria Callas singing Puccini. My lips twinged up for a moment. Don had mocked me for that ring tone many a time.

I scrambled for the device, flipping it open before Danny could continue. It wasn't that the conversation was making me uncomfortable... I just wanted so badly for what Danny was saying to be true. And it wasn't. The past six hours had proved that.

"Petrov."

"Emilia." It was Mac on the other end. "Are you and Danny on your way back?"

As if on cue, Danny jammed the car into drive and began to pull out. "Yep. Should be back in about twenty minutes, considering it's rush hour."

"There's been a change of plans. Have Danny drop you off at Flack's."

My mouth opened and closed a few times before I could finally squeeze out, "What? Why?"

"Just trust me. I need you over there. And make sure he gets cleaned up and back here as soon as possible."

The directions sounded simple enough. But right at that moment, it felt like my boss had just asked me to stab myself in the leg. The last thing I wanted to see right then was Flack. I was too strung out, too emotionally exhausted. I didn't know whether I would flip out in anger, or just burst into tears, and both were options I'd rather avoid doing in front of him. I knew he was alive and relatively unharmed, or else Mac would have sent us to an ER. And until I got a decent nights sleep, figured out how to handle the fact that I had misjudged our friendship, the fact that I had just spent four hours combing hospitals on the verge of tears for a partner that clearly didn't trust me like I trusted him, just knowing that he was alive was plenty enough for me.

But, Mac was my boss, and something about his tone told me he was pulling rank on this one. So I just answered with a "Yes, sir," and hung up.

"Flack's?" Even after all this time, the extent of Danny's intuition never really ceased to amaze me. I closed my eyes and began to rub my temples with my middle fingers, not even bothering to give confirmation. Danny flipped on the blinker, not needing it. "The things we do for friends, eh Petrov?"

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**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Please leave some love in the reviews! =D**


	5. Achilles' Last Stand

**A/N: Little bit longer this time. I struggled with this chapter, trying to keep as "in character" as possible during such an out of character personal and emotional exchange without breaking the first person POV. Please let me know how I did in a review! =D And as always, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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"Don, I know you're up there and that you hear me down here. Let me in." I had one arm braced over the buzzer box. No response. I waited a few seconds and tried the door again. Nothing.

I leaned on the intercom button. "In two minutes I'm going to break the fucking door down, so it's in your best interest to buzz me in before you have to explain why your super has asked the department to pay to fix your outer door."

Still nothing. Jesus Christ he was stubborn. I let my forehead rest against the hard brick of the building as I waited another few seconds for that click that said the door had been unlatched. A group of teens gathered on the other side of the street were staring, bits and pieces of their conversation wafting over to me. They seemed to be torn between thinking I'm scary, and feeling bad for me.

I jammed the intercom button again. "Don..." It came out as less of a name, more of a warning. Still nothing.

I tried again. "Don, please..." I tried to keep the edge to my voice, but failed miserably as it cracked. God, I was tired. I sighed and let my chin drop to my chest. What was the point? What was I even doing here? Mac clearly thought I could do something here, help in some way. But I sure as hell didn't know how that was. Flack clearly didn't want my help anyway.

I tried one last time, my voice now sounding weak and shaky. I just didn't have the strength or the heart to keep my bitch turned on. "Don..." A heartbeat passed and I heard the click of the door being released. In that moment, that little metallic scraping sounded better than the New York Philharmonic. A real miracle. Because really, even if he wouldn't let me be there for him, even if he wouldn't let me help or do whatever it is that Mac sent me over there for, maybe he'd let me take a nap on his couch. That comfy, squishy leather couch. Or, who knows. Maybe I could do both.

Now, _that_ would really be a miracle.

-------------

"Shit, Em. You look like hell." Those were his first words to me as he opened the door.

My eyes narrowed and I pushed past him into his apartment. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I muttered under my breath before turning to speak directly to him. "Okay, so, you go AWOL from work to go on a drunken bender, and the way I look is a bigger concern to you?"

He shut the door and started to follow me into the living room. "Well, excuse me for being worried when my usually impeccably groomed partner shows up at my door looking vaguely homeless. What the hell happened?" There wasn't any edge to his voice, just concern.

I spun on my heel, my hands flying to my hips. "What the hell happened? What the hell happened?!" My voice was getting shrill. It was sounding like my mother's. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a second trying to compose myself. I _hated_ when I started sounding like my mother. I sighed, making my way around and flopping down onto the couch.

"What happened is exactly what I just told you," I said, "That you went AWOL to go on a drunken bender, Don." My tone surprised me. I sounded defeated. "On top of eight hours in the lab, five of which were spent praying that Danny would call to say he just flushed you out of a bar or something, Danny and I just spent four hours searching emergency rooms, hoping you weren't already in the morgue." I leaned forward, putting my elbows on my knees and rubbing more mascara out of my eyes. Never buying that brand again, I'll tell you.

I wiped my hand on my jeans and leaned back. As Flack bent, putting an unopened can of coke on the coffee table in front of me, I got my first good look at him since I entered the apartment. The bags under his eyes were as deep as mine, he had at least a day's worth of stubble, if not more. There was some sort of laceration on his forehead, a few dried flecks of blood still clinging to his temple and hair. But his eyes were what got to me most of all. Usually they made him so transparent, so easy to read. Now, they were just empty. I suddenly felt the impulse to throw myself around his neck and cry uncontrollably for him.

"I suppose Mac sent you over here to yell at me, huh?" He let himself sink into the couch next to me as he spoke, a few flecks of blood loosening from the movement and fluttering further down his cheek. I resisted the urge to reach over and brush them away.

"Yea, I guess he did. And to bring you back to work. We do have a serial killer to catch."

"Well, let's get it over with." He looked over at me resignedly, expecting me to blow. But I was so tired. And his eyes... they were so hopeless, so shattered.

"You know, I was going to. I really was. But-" I kicked my shoes off as I stumbled for words. "I just... I can't..." I drew my knees up to my chest, settling into the couch corner, turned ever so slightly so I was facing him, unsure of what to say. "Just... what the hell happened, Don?" The words came out soft and pleading as I felt that hot pressure start to form behind my eyes. Tears were threatening to brim.

He ran his hands through his blood-matted hair. "I don't know... I just... It was haunting me, Em."

"Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?" If my voice didn't betray how hurt I felt, I'm sure my eyes did. His own filled with guilt as they met mine. "I've been there." I murmured. "You know that. I know how hard it is to lose someone you love. I-"

He looked down and shook his head as he cut me off. "It's not about Jess. I loved her, I still miss her, it sucks, but I'm handling that."

Right. Handling that. I released my legs, sitting forward to be even with him. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I did a lot of stupid shit after Jason was killed, but 'handling it' did not include drinking myself into a stupor and almost getting killed on the subway. That doesn't sound like you're handling it." I paused, trying to gauge his reaction, but he had none. Stayed stone faced and fascinated with the floor. So I pressed on. "In fact, that sounds exactly like the things I did when I decidedly _wasn't _handling it."

"Mac told you what happened?" He finally brought his focus up from the hardwood, a rosy tinge of embarrassment briefly crossing his features.

"Only the bare bones. You were drunk as a duck and Terrence saved your ass."

Don snorted, his split lip lifting into a smirk. "Drunk as a duck? That's a new one."

"Don..."

"Yea, I know. More important things..."

We lapsed into silence, both of us leaning on our knees and suddenly re-fascinated by the floor. His tall solid form made me feel tiny in comparison as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Or really, more like shoulder to mid-bicep. I reached forward and popped open the coke he had brought earlier, my murmured thanks the only sound besides the gentle pops and fizzes coming from the can. That was a comforting sound. Simple. So far from the complicated mess that the two of us were currently sitting in the middle of. From the complicated shit storm that was swirling in my head.

I mean, I cared about this man sitting next to me. I really did. He was my partner, and my friend. Although, clearly I counted him as closer than he counted me. In fact, just how much I cared about him was an issue I don't think I could let myself honestly address yet, but the fact remained that to see he was hurting like this tore me apart. Regardless of how deep he considered our friendship to be or how deep he thought it wasn't, it still hurt like hell to see him sitting there, dejected, empty, and shamed. But, for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to say to make it better. I didn't know how to get him to open up to me. How I could get him to recognize that I cared.

I drank a mouthful of the soda, closing my eyes as if sheer will power would urge the caffeine into my system faster. Wake my brain up. Let me figure out what to say.

"I shot him, Em."

The words startled me out of my private thoughts. "Who?"

"Simon Cade."

My head turned towards him--those electric blue eyes of his had suddenly become red rimmed. And they were certainly no longer empty. Guilt, fear, and regret had suddenly rushed into his expression. I responded to him slowly, recalling the name from the case file I had covertly accessed all those months ago. "That's the guy that shot Jess."

"I looked him straight in the eye and shot him." His voice cracked, and his face screwed up into a frown as he tried to keep it together.

This wasn't making any sense to me. Surely that wasn't the first person he had had to shoot in the line of duty. He'd been a cop much longer than I had, and I had no less than 10 unfortunate notches on my belt. Frankly, considering all my years as a cop had been in crazy ass big cities, I thought I was still quite a bit under par with that number. I mean, killing someone was always hard, and certainly not a desirable outcome, but it was the harsh reality of the job. Shoot or be shot. It happened. "He had a gun. We're cops. We have to do that from time to time." My eyebrows knitted in concern as much as confusion.

He shook his head forcefully. "No." He rubbed at his eyes, desperately trying to hide the fact he was wiping away tears. If my face wasn't two feet away from his, it might have worked. "I just couldn't think about anything but making it right..."

Realization dawned on me as his voice faded away. This _really _wasn't about Jess.

He leaned back into the couch cushion, having recovered his composure slightly after a few deep breaths. "I've never been that angry, Em. Never in my life felt that kind of rage. I looked him straight in the eye and I pulled the trigger. I _murdered_ him, Em. I shot him in cold blood."

I didn't know what to say, I didn't know how to react. I should have been appalled, should have instinctively drawn away. Called Mac, called Captain, called somebody. But really? I didn't care. My partner just confessed to murder, and it didn't make one smidgen of a difference to me what he had done. Didn't change what I thought of him one bit. Did that make me a shitty cop? Probably. But whatever. Instead I felt like throwing my arms around him more than ever. Drawing him into a hug that I had no intentions of ending. But that couldn't happen, and probably wouldn't help. I felt beyond useless as I sat there on the couch next to him. So I said nothing, and just let him talk.

"And I don't know that he wasn't going to reach for that gun, that he wasn't going to try to kill me first. But that doesn't change the anger. That doesn't change what I did. That doesn't get his face out of my head." The pain that he was masking with anger was unbearable to listen to.

"Don..."

"Look, I'm sorry." He rubbed his eyes again, covertly ridding them of built up tears. Macho NY detectives weren't supposed to cry, I guess. "If you want to put in the partner change paperwork tomorrow, just let me know." Quiet resignation had replaced the pained anger.

"NO." The vehemence of my reply caught us both off guard. "No." Calmer this time, "I would never. You're the best partner I've ever had, Don."

He looked skeptical. So after a moment of silence I began to elaborate. "You're a fantastic cop, a genuinely good person, and you're young and fit enough that I don't have to handle all the runners by myself." I let out an unlady-like snort as I pictured my first partner in Philly. Jemson was 52, way overweight, and lazy as hell. Guy could barely walk up steps without getting winded, never mind chase some douche down ten city blocks.

I noticed Flack was giving me an odd look, so I left my memory and continued."You're smart, and willing to trust me when I switch to labbie mode. You believe in the forensics. And frankly? You're a pretty good friend to boot. So long as this self-destruct shit stops, there's really not much more I could ask for in a partner. And as much as I would love to go back to the lab full time, I've got a two year iron-clad contract for this half and half business. So don't even suggest a partner change, because I'll be damned if I end up paired with O'Connell or some other idiot with no respect for me or for the science."

He looked at me with disbelief. "But, I killed a guy, Em. And I told you about it." His face scrunched up, clearly struggling to find words. "I shouldn't have. You shouldn't be burdened with that. You shouldn't have to choose whether or not to turn me in for it."

"Is that why you didn't tell me something was going on with you?" A nod that loosened more flecks of dried blood confirmed my statement. "Well, can I share something with you then?"

He made a "hmm" noise, swinging those baby blues back to me.

"I don't care."

His eyebrows furrowed, but he said nothing.

"I don't care what you did or didn't do, Don. I don't care if your motive for shooting that bastard wasn't purely 'shoot or be shot.' We're all capable of it."

He ran his hands through his hair as I continued. "Should you get away scot free with it because your a cop? No, probably not. But look at yourself." I couldn't resist it any longer and reached over, brushing the blood flecks off his cheek. "You're punishing yourself harder than any warden could, I think."

I suddenly felt really daring and took his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. His eyes were wide and confused, an expression that I admit threw me a little. I'd never seen this steadfast, sarcastic detective look confused and unsure before. Sad? Yes. Tortured? Yes. But never unsure. "This is between us, and unless you decide to share it, between only us. You need to talk about it? We can talk about it. I am not Mac, I am not going to feel compelled to report you. I see the grey areas, Don. I see the grey areas because I've been there."

He looked skeptical. "You shot Jason's killer in cold blood? Somehow that part got left out of the story then, because I would have remembered that." His tone had bite to it.

"No, I didn't." When he looked away, an "I knew it" look on his face, I continued quietly. "But I have no doubt that if I had had the chance, I would have. Without a second thought."

He stared me down for a second like we were in the interrogation room, challenging me, looking for any hint that I might be lying. I'd never been on the receiving end of that look, and in that moment I gained a new found sense of sympathy for those who did. But I stared back steadily. Not one thing I said wasn't true.

What felt like eons later, he looked away, seemingly satisfied with my honesty. "Thanks, Em," he mumbled.

I gave him a lopsided smile before I pulled him into a tight hug, which, surprisingly, he returned.

He let out a small, sardonic laugh as I tensed. "You're regretting this whole hug decision, aren't you."

I wrinkled my nose, but didn't pull away, speaking into his neck. "You smell like vomit, booze, and subway skank."

"Yea..." he huffed as we both released our grip on the other. "I'm going to go shower." He scrunched up his nose as he pointed towards the hallway where the bathroom was.

"Good idea," I said with a laugh as a small smile started to appear on his face. I flopped back down on the couch to wait for him, feeling like maybe I had actually helped a little.

He was halfway to the bathroom when he turned back saying, "And for the love of god, take a nap while I'm getting ready, Em. You look worse than I do."

"At least I smell better..." I mumbled into the leather arm of the couch, already halfway to dreamland as I thought, _Maybe miracles do happen after all._

_----------------_

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed! And as always, let me know what you thought in a review!**


	6. Eminence Front

**A/N: Next installment! Shorter, but this time, we get a little taste of Emmie's past. Before we begin though, I do want to thank all of you who have took the time to review! I really appreciate the feedback, and hopefully will get around to PMing you guys some thanks sometime very soon!**

**So anyway, enjoy this installment, and, as always, let me know what you think in a review!**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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_"Mom, stop fussing." I batted her hand away from my hair, smiling at her in the mirror. She smiled back, sighing in surrender as she started to sniffle._

_"I'm sorry, sweetie, it's just..." Her smile grew wider, even as a tear began to escape. "I just can't believe you're getting married! It was just yesterday that I was officiating play weddings for five year olds in the back yard, it seems, and now look." She fluffed up my veil as I bit my lip, trying to fight the urge to start joy-crying myself. "My little girl is all grown up and in a wedding dress for real."_

_I let out a laugh as I remembered standing in front of our old oak, dressed in our finest play costumes, very solemnly nodding along as Mom recited vows to be repeated, a folded piece of white paper stuck in the collar of her pastel flowered shirt. Instead of to have and to hold, it was to share all toys and to not pinch. "If you'll remember, I was always a bridesmaid, never a bride."_

_"Actually, I do believe you were technically a groomsmaid, Emmie." My sister, Miranda's face appeared in the mirror over my other shoulder, taking her turn to fluff my veil and smooth my side swept bangs. "Didn't want to wear a skirt, I believe. Ya tomboy, you."_

_"You just couldn't handle me challenging gender expectations at your fake weddings to Tommy." I gave her a big grin as she rolled her eyes. I gathered my skirt and stood up. "Besides, look at me now! Queen of the froof." I gave a little sashay, holding the yards upon yards of beaded satin out for maximum effect._

_Andie put her hands on her hips and gave me a warning look. "Once we unbustle that thing, don't even think about dancing around like that. You'll mess up your train!"_

_I put a hand up with a laugh. She always was such a fusser when it came to clothing. "Don't worry, I'll resist. Just don't unbustle it until the very last minute, that's all."_

_She folded her arms, raising an eyebrow. I tossed her the portable steamer in response, already knowing what she was worried about. "Come on... you've got to let me do my happy dances today. I'm the bride! I let you do your anxious crazy bridezilla thing on your day, AND I don't even throw it in your face that often. I deserve my happy dances."_

_Andie sent a glare my way. "How generous of you."_

_I stuck my tongue out. "Besides, I don't care if my train is wrinkled."_

_My mother pulled me around, armed with lipstick. "I always knew you'd be a low maintenance bride, Emilia. A little too low maintenance if you ask me." She grabbed my chin, squeezing my lips into a pucker and applying the cosmetic. "You have to wear lipstick." I didn't try to fight. There was no fight in me today, nothing but joy and exited anticipation._

_After she let go, she stepped back and admired her work, tearing up again. "My baby girl!"_

_As she moved away to busy herself with her own make-up, I took a second to look myself over in the mirror. Fourty-five minutes until the first strains of Charpentier's Te Deum would signal my entrance in grand style. And I mean grand style. There were definitely benefits to marrying someone who went to school at a major conservatory, I'll tell you that much. Crazy Nick even convinced the church's music director to let us use their tympani for the beginning of it. And boy, was I ready for that tympani roll. _

_My strawberry-blonde hair was pulled into a french twist under the white lace, my bangs ever so slightly hiding one dark blue eye. My dress fit me like a glove, the strapless beaded bodice setting off the single strand of pearls my grandmother had worn at her own wedding perfectly. I was so ready. So ready to walk down that aisle. So ready to marry that green eyed prince of a baritone. So ready to be walked out of the church to the Allegro Assai of Bach's second Brandenburg Concerto, Jimmy on trumpet and Alexa on the organ, a newly married woman. So ready to meet the world as Mrs. Emilia Aldridge._

_""You're forgetting something, sweetheart!" My much older sister Rosaline burst into the room from the adjoining one, her seventeen year old daughter Cassie following close behind, twirling my blue garter on her finger with a smirk._

_Mom and Andie both gasped in unison, "Something blue!"_

_I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Crazy people. All of them._

_I was struggling to pull the garter up to choruses of laughter from the other women when there was a crash outside the door of the hotel suite. It was quickly followed by raised voices._

_"Is that..." Andie's brows furrowed._

_Another crash in the hallway, this time accompanied by a grunt of pain and a shattering sound._

_"Jason!" his name barely had time to leave my lips as I rushed towards the hallway, ignoring my mother's protests from behind me._

_I whipped the door open just in time to hear him gasp frantically from his position on the ground, "Emilia, get back inside!" Just in time to recognize the shiny metal of a gun barrel. Just in time to see the muzzle flash._

_It happened in slow motion. The bullet left the gun and blew away the right side of Jason's face, crimson droplets splattering across my dress and skin, bits of brain tissue flying through the air. I heard my scream as if a million miles away. The other man turned and began to run as I dropped to my knees, shuffling over, chanting Jason's name, trying to get him to wake up despite the ragged tissue where his dimpled cheek used to be._

_Sobs began to shake my body as his remaining eye stared up at me, emerald and empty._

* * *

I gasped awake, out of breath and teary, to find an unfamiliar blanket draped over me. There was also a pillow wedged where seconds before my head had been. Where the hell was I?

As sleep and panic dissipated and my vision began to focus, the buttery brown leather of the couch jogged my memory. Flack's. I was still at Flack's. He must have provided the blanket and the pillow while I was out like a light. Right.

But where the hell was he? I swung my legs down, removing the blanket ready to go look for him. Before I could stand up, I noticed that a slip of paper, a key, and an empty mug had been placed on the coffee table. I reached forward and grabbed the note which was clearly in Flack's own personal brand of cursive chicken scratch. God, I can't even recall the number of times I'd badgered him about his penmanship before I finally got him to switch to his shockingly neat print when it was something I'd have to read. I guess that courtesy didn't extend beyond work. I squinted, trying to decipher what he left.

_Em -_

_Get some rest, okay? I've got you covered with Mac, don't worry. Just lock up when you leave. Key's on the table._

_I left the coffee pot set up. Just turn the thing on and help yourself. You won't regret it._

It was signed with the scribble I had come to identify as his name. I turned it over to find an addition to the note.

_And thanks for putting up with me, Em. I swear I won't let this happen again. You deserve better._

I leaned back into the couch with a sigh, glancing at my watch. Point one for Don Flack on the friendship scoreboard. I had gotten a good four hours of sleep, and was actually feeling rather refreshed, despite the dream.

I rubbed my hands over my face, willing the sleep from my eyes. God I hated reliving that. It didn't happen as often anymore, only a few times a year. But dreaming through that moment always packed a punch that I wasn't ready for.

I guess it was better than every night, like it used to be. For the year or two afterwards, I couldn't even close my eyes without seeing that empty green eye staring back at me. Now I was at least able to live my life, even though I'd never forget.

Not that I'd really want to forget completely.

I made my way into the kitchen with the mug he left for me, leaning on the bar-like divider as I turned on the coffee pot.

This was weird. Being in Flack's apartment alone. Having him trust me enough to leave the key, even if I was going to give it back an a few hours. It felt... uncomfortably intimate. I closed my eyes, trying to will my mind to slow down. It was still swimming with images from my flashback, along with the gruesome images my mind had conjured up before of Don and the unidentifiable emotions they invoked. Well, at least I knew what had triggered the flashback dream.

I opened my eyes, unwilling to acknowlege the implications of that, instead focusing on the New York Rangers logo that was emblazoned on the mug, and forcing myself to listen to the drip of the coffee pot. Distract, listen, and breathe. Those three steps had served me well over the years.

As the machine spluttered to a stop, I poured out the contents, a drip of brown slowly oozing over the blue of the Rangers insignia, and took my first sip. A small moan escaped as liquid heaven washed over my tongue.

Make that point number two for Don Flack. He had left the good stuff.

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you thought in a review!**


	7. In the Light

**A/N: Blatent spoilers for 06x09: Manhattanhenge. Little Lindsey/Emmie bonding chapter. A few notes that may clarify a few references: Mimì is a character from Puccini's opera ****_La Boheme. _She's a young seamstress who contracts TB and eventually dies at the end. The TB thing is the only thing you really need to know here, though. I think I explained Zerlina pretty well in the text itself. As for Lindsey being an opera fan, in 02x13: Risk, she notes in response to Danny's comment about her formal wear that she had been at the opera, and it just fit in so well with my plans that I ran with it!**

**As always, enjoy, and please let me know what you think in a review! =D**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

******------**

A stop at my apartment, a shower, and a change of clothes later, I was back at the lab, ready to work. Even if my mind was still slightly stuck wondering how awkward things were going to be between me and my partner now. If I could find him, that is.

A voice called out to me from the break room, "Hey, sleeping beauty! You missed all sorts of excitement out there... underground hideouts and crazy sewer chases... It was nuts!" It was Lindsey, looking impossibly perky for a woman with a baby and a thankless, time consuming job. But that was Lindsey for you. Genuinely friendly, open, and happy in a way that only a country girl can be. It was why I ended up so close with the woman so quickly. Now Stella on the other hand... she was as hard to crack as Mac.

I chuckled slightly at my internal rhyme as I joined Linds on the break room couch. "You're looking far better there, Mimì," she raised an eyebrow at me as she handed me a cup of coffee.

My second week at the lab, the two of us had unexpectedly bonded over my cell phone ring tone. She had identified it as Maria Callas right away. Even knew that it was an aria from Turandot. It had shocked me that this little teeny woman from the sticks of Montana had a secret love for opera, and I immediately started calling her Zerlina, the country girl from Mozart's Don Giovanni. The second she found out that I used to sing, she fired back at me with "Mimì." It was extra fitting at the time because I was just getting over a chest cold. Granted, it wasn't exactly TB, but it still left me with a gross sounding cough. The nicknames stuck even after my cough had disappeared. Much to our delight, it baffled everyone else but Mac. But I'm not sure if that was because he knew something about opera, remembered seeing that year at Julliard on my resume, or because he just didn't care enough to notice.

"Thanks, Zerlina." I took a sip and fought not to make a face. The lab coffee wasn't terrible, but it was nothing like what Flack had left me. I made a mental note to ask him what brand it was later. "I fell asleep waiting for Flack to get ready so I could escort him back here to Mac. I guess he thought it might be prudent to let me sleep, considering I apparently looked homeless."

"He said that?"

"I do believe those exact words. Not one to mince the truth, that Flack."

"No, he's not." She paused and gave me an apologetic look before continuing. "You were looking pretty bad, there. Enough for even Danny to be worried."

"Yea, well. Angsty AWOL partners tend to do that to me." I swung my feet up onto the glass coffee table and settled back into the couch cushion. I had cleared enough of my backlog during my panic induced fit of productivity earlier to be able to relax until something new came in for ballistics or I got a called out into the field. Of course, being NYC, that would probably be sooner rather than later. "I'm assuming he got back here alright?"

Linds leaned back, mimicking my posture. "Yea, I saw them talking earlier. Looked a little like a puppy with his tail between his legs when he came in. It was endearing."

"Mac blow?" I looked over, really hoping that the answer was no. I suspected that it had happened earlier, before I had gotten to Flack's, and another boss blow up was the last thing the poor guy needed. He had looked beaten down enough.

"Naw, seemed very civil. No yelling or anything. And Mac didn't look like he got angry. A little preachy, maybe."

I snorted. "Mac? Preachy? Noooo."

Lindsey let out a giggle. "Real shocker, I know."

"Eh, but that's what makes him so good at being the boss, I suppose."

"Yea."

We settled into silence, looking through the glass walls into the trace lab where Adam was getting blown off by Hayden. Again. Poor kid can't catch a break.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I love the fact that the walls in this place are see through?" I drained the last of my coffee and placed the cup on the table.

"Have I ever mentioned how much I agree with you?" We shared a laugh and fell into silence again.

"So, what's new with the Compass Killer case?" My words brought a storm cloud to Lindsey's usually sunny eyes. Clearly it was not going well.

"Well, we've got a slight lead in that we know the last victim is going to be himself. Blames himself for asking her to come to his work the day of the shooting."

I squinted my eyes, desperately trying to follow. I guess they'd accomplished a lot while I was dealing with Flack and taking my nap. A pang of guilt clenched in my stomach for not being around to help.

Linds noticed my confusion and smacked her palm against her forehead. "Right, you were in dreamland. Basic jist is, we identified the guy as Hollis Eckhart. He's got PTSD from a massacre at his office two years ago. His wife was killed there, after he had asked her to meet him there instead of at the Phil because he was running late. I pulled a drawing of the last victim out from under some seriously violent scribbles, and turns out, it's himself. He blames himself the most."

"Understandable," I muttered, both Flack's and my own spiral into self blame suddenly springing to mind.

"I'll say." For a moment Lindsey's eyes unfocused. I assume she was thinking about the night that Danny got shot and how easy it might have been for rage like that to overtake her had she lost him. That kind of rage was easy to fall into, and you never quite realized you fell until it was too late.

"So I take it they're out trying to find him now?"

"Yea, Hawkes put it together. He's going to kill himself at Manhattanhenge."

"Oh man, I forgot about that. That's at sunrise today, isn't it?"

"You know about Manhattanhenge?"

I smiled to myself, remembering my crazy family all crowded into the car at four in the morning. "My dad brought us all into the city once when we were little to see it, and I try to catch it when I can anymore. I don't think it was called anything back then though." Lindsey was looking at me like I dropped from Mars, so I explained. "My dad's a bit of an astronomy geek." She made a small noise of comprehension before I continued. "So did you guys figure out where he's gonna do it?"

"Probably at Lincoln Center. The rhyming twins are out there now."

"The rhyming twins?"

"Mac and Flack."

It was my turn to make a noise of understanding before once more, we fell into silence, both of us swimming in our own memories of loss.

"How's Don handling this?" My voice was quiet, hushed, as if it was a dangerous topic. I guess it kind of was. The parallels of loss and guilt were kind of stunning between this Eckhart guy and Flack's breakdown over shooting Cade. Although, there was the added complication of PTSD and possible schizophrenia with Eckhart. Flack at least had the benefit of being relatively well adjusted before his downward spiral.

"Good, I think." It was clear from her face that she understood exactly why I was asking. It was gradually becoming evident that the lab members knew perfectly well about Simon Cade, and had from the moment it happened. It certainly explained Danny's attitude of inevitability while we were looking for Don. "I think maybe, horrible as it is, it was a pretty good wake up call for him."

"Handle it before it starts handling you, huh?"

"Yea..." her response was quiet, full of concern. "You know a lot about that, don't you."

"I've certainly got my own demons, 'Lina. Doesn't everyone?" I kept my eyes focused to my side, out the window. Tinges of dawn were beginning to appear. We actually had a pretty good view from the break room, seeing right down a cross street. We wouldn't even have to move to see the show.

"Don seemed really shocked at how patient you were with him."

Those words brought my head whipping back to her, my eyebrows furrowing behind my glasses.

She responded, not even needing me to ask. "Danny sat him down and basically interrogated him when he got done with Mac. He didn't go into details or anything. I just assume anyone with enough compassion and patience to impress Flack is either a shrink or has some experience with shit herself. And I'm pretty sure your degree isn't psychology."

The thought of having impressed him brought a little warmth to my cheeks. Him saying that meant he realized exactly how hard he had been making it, too, which frankly bode well for him.

Lindsey was still looking at me expectantly. "I lost my fiancee when I was twenty-two." I had no intention of going anymore into detail than that. I didn't need anyone else looking up that file. Don knew, and that was plenty enough for me.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Em."

I hated when people apologized for his death. They had nothing to do with it. Why apologize? I mean, I get that they're sorry for the loss and everything, and that it's a fairly normal response that most people actually appreciate. But it still bugged me, however abnormal that made me feel. I of course didn't share that opinion with Linds. Instead I just replied, "It's okay. It's been a long time."

Lindsey put a hand on my arm, and started to say something, but I hushed her. I really had no desire to talk about it, and nature was just about to provide me with the perfect out.

"Look." I nodded towards the window where the sun was starting to rise. "Manhattanhenge."

Linds let out a slight gasp, and then we settled in to watch, both of us wondering if Mac and Don had gotten to Eckhart before he could do anything. The silence was comfortable as we watched the bright orange orb gradually appear over the horizon, bathing the city in a warm glow. Danny and Hawkes joined us just before the most impressive part, and as we all sat there, my mind wandered to Don, hoping he was alright, hoping that he was getting to see this already having Eckhart in custody. Hoping he was going to stay alright.

With any luck, the sunrise would bring good news.

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**A/N: There we have it! Hope you enjoyed! I've got some big plot plans coming up, so stay tuned, and as always, let me know what you thought in a review!**


	8. Day Tripper

**A/N: Here we are! Enjoy! And as always, let me know what you think!**

**Also, a big thanks to conche, Ms. Lori Reznor, Kykio Chan, and N1kki1984 for the super awesome, kind reviews!**

**One last thing before we get started... I must give credit to a Kathy Reichs novel for the To-do list idea. I needed a way to explain Emmie's dog situation, and this turned out to be perfect.**

**Disclaimer: ****I own my original character, but not the world in which she lives nor the people she interacts with. ****CSI: NY**** and all related material is the property of its owner, and I claim no affiliation or rights to any of it.**

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I sighed, head in hand, elbow on the table. My pen started to doodle on my notepad. Tulip. Sun. Daisy. Tree. Soon I had a whole meadow scene, complete with stick figure squirrel.

I hated staff meetings. I hated debreifings. I got my debreifing in the lab, I didn't need another one trapped in a room full of misogynistic assholes.

The tip of Flack's pen jammed into my side underneath the conference table. He narrowed his eyes, passing a torn scrap of paper towards me. _At least try to look like you're paying attention._

I raised my eyebrow at him, looking over at his own notepad, balanced between his lap and the edge of the table. A whole host of Spirograph-like shapes covered the margins. Yea, because he was the model citizen over there. He shook his head with a huff as he tore another scrap of paper off and scribbled something, shoving it over when he finished.

_I said look like it, not do it. And sit up. O'Connell's looking down your shirt._

I bolted upright, my eyes darting to the other side of the table in a death glare. O'Connell winked. Asshole.

I turned the scrap of paper over and scribbled a note of my own, feeling much like I was in high school again, passing notes in class. _And you're surprised that I'd rather stay partnered with you?_

He read it, and we exchanged a look, heavy with meaning. Too bad I had no idea what that meaning was.

Captain was still up at the front, going on about the Eckhart case. Been there, done that, heard it all from Linds, Mac, and Don. Cap was starting to sound like the teacher from the Charlie Brown specials. Voiced by a trombone with a plunger and a pixie mute. WahhwahWah WahwahWahWAHHH. Awful lot of fuss just to tell us not to tell the media anything except to refer them back to the department's official statement.

I glanced up at the clock. Forty-five minutes until I could clock out. Unless something came up and we got assigned. Luckily, Don's bender made us getting assigned to anything in the next twenty four hours unlikely. Silver lining, I suppose. Maybe I'd actually be able to get something done tonight.

I leaned back in my chair and began to make my To Do List for later, trying to make it look like I was raptly taking notes. I saw Don's lips quirk up out of my peripheral vision.

_1) Get mail._

_2) Groceries._

My fridge was currently holding nothing but half a carton of milk and the left over Chinese food from two days ago. I couldn't keep living on take out.

_3) Vet appointment for Desi._

Desi was short for Desdemona, my three year old chocolate lab. I had been so afraid I was going to have to give her up when I moved back into New York. I thank my lucky stars that my cousin Diana is a veterinary assistant, and that the building her and her husband own, live in, and super for had happened to have a vacancy. So she used her key to take care of Desi when work tied me up. Which was basically all the time. Sometimes I was surprised that the poor girl even recognized me anymore, she spent so much time with Diana.

My list continued.

_4) Clean bathroom._

_5) Email photos to Andie._

_6) Call Cassie._

"Petrov." The Cap's gruff voice cut through my train of thought. I looked up at him, everyone's eyes had turned to me. Shit. Had I missed something?

"Cap?"

"I need you to stay here for a minute. I need to talk to you. Alone." After an uncomfortable look right into Don's eyes, he turned back to the rest of the room. "Everyone else, get back to work."

"Uh-oh." Don whispered as we made eye contact. Was that a tinge of fear I saw there? I tried to silently assure him that I had his back. Hopefully he got the gist, though he didn't look any less worried as he clapped a hand on my shoulder and left the room.

Once everyone was cleared out, Cap pulled out the chair Don had just vacated and sat facing me. "So Taylor told me that Flack was... ill." The last word came out heavy and slippery. He knew. My stomach sank, but I tried to look oblivious to his implied meaning, steeling myself to handle this.

"Yes, sir. Very sick." I turned on my innocent eyes. Wide, blinky, and concerned. Like hell was I going to be on the record ratting Flack out. Or Mac for that matter.

"He looks fine now." Cap's eyes narrowed at me.

"He's still a little pale, sir. Seems to have been one of those 24-hour stomach bugs. Threw up all over my shoes when I went to check on him last night."

"Is that so." Not a question. He knew perfectly well that I was lying my ass off.

"Yes, sir. My favorite pair, too." We glared at each other through a moment of silence.

"But he's... feeling better now?" He chose his words carefully, spitting them out one by one to ensure that I got his gist.

"Seems to be, sir." I narrowed my eyes, daring him to challenge me while at the same time making it clear that he wasn't going to get anywhere. I knew how to play this little game, and he wasn't going to trap me.

After a moment, his eyes softened ever so slightly and he leaned back in the chair. "Well, make sure he buys you a replacement pair of pumps there. And from now on you make sure you keep an extra close eye on him. Make sure he doesn't... relapse. Got it?" His tone still had bite to it. Translation? If Don went AWOL again, my ass was going to end up on the chopping block right next to his if I didn't instantly rat. Which was not going to happen.

"Of course, sir." Coy smile, innocent blink.

"Good." He stood up, smacking a hand on the table as he did so. I jumped ever so slightly at the motion. He proceeded to peer at me with a frown for a tension filled few moments before mumbling, "I hope he appreciates you, Petrov," and shaking his head. With that, he strode out leaving me to start breathing normally again.

I stayed there for a few minutes, replaying the conversation in my head and trying to get my bearings. Cap clearly knew exactly what the hell had happened, but with both Mac and I covering, he didn't have shit to make it official. I just hope I had done the right thing.

-----

By the time I got back to my desk, it was time to clock out, and Don was waiting for me, our coats in hand. He was just as ready to get out of this place as I was, apparently.

"What happened?" he looked apprehensive. And lets face it, for good reason.

I took my jacket from him, slipping it on with a nod of thanks. "He just wanted to make sure you were feeling better."

"Really."

"No." I grabbed my purse from my desk drawer, throwing my gun and badge in. "Come on. Lets get some pizza and take it back to my place. I'll fill you in on the oh-so-polite veiled threats."

"Why your place?"

"I miss my dog." I turned and took a long hard look at him before sighing. "Look, you can join me, or you can not join me. I'm still buying pizza, and a lot of it. So it's up to you if you want a free meal or if I'm going to be eating pizza for the next four days. Let's just get out of here before they put us on a case, okay?"

He nodded and we made our way out the door in silence, every other Detective in the place avoiding direct eye contact, but staring holes into our backs as soon as we passed. Damn place was like high school, and we had just gotten called to the Principal's office. I'm sure as soon as we were out the door the rumor mill would start grinding. By the time we were on shift again it'd probably have us both having gone AWOL to go drown hookers in the East River on a whim, Cap would have been screaming at me so loud in the conference room that the whole precinct heard, and everyone would be pissed off that we didn't get fired for something neither of us actually did. Whatever. Fuck 'em.

It wasn't until we were halfway down the subway stairs that he broke the silence, bringing me out of my own speculations at the route the rumor mill would take. "At least let me buy. It's the least I can do."

"I'll accept that." I paused for a moment, wondering if I should address anything here. "Just don't ever pull anything like that again. Because your ass is not the only one you put in danger with that shit anymore."

He halted mid-step and blinked at me a few times, clearly taken aback at what that statement had implied that I did. I had lied to our boss for him. Knowingly lying to Cap was far more likely to get someone fired than dodging work for booze. One night of drunken debauchery after an otherwise flawless career as a legacy cop would probably get you a psych eval and some crazy serious desk duty. But deliberately lying to Cap as a relative newbie to the force whose daddy was a professor instead of a detective would have me booted out the door in two seconds flat. Flack knew that.

"Why are you so nice to me?" Honest confusion had arrested his expression, his blue eyes wide and questioning.

I shifted my weight, suddenly feeling uncomfortable as he stared down into my eyes. "Because you're a good man, and that's what friends do." My reply was short and matter of fact. I really didn't want to go any further with this conversation, because at this point, I really couldn't fully explain it other than that I cared about him. And that I knew what he was dealing with all too well. "That's what partners do. I'm not going to throw you under the bus to protect my own ass. That's just not me."

He continued to look at me through squinted eyes, people milling around us on their way to or on their way from the subway. After what felt like forever, he pulled me into a hug, a quiet "Thanks" ruffling the top of my hair. "I don't know how I can ever repay you."

I pulled away and shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets. "Just keep O'Connell away from me and his eyes away from my underthings. I'd call that more than even."

He let out a laugh and slung a friendly arm around my shoulders as we continued on our way down to the train. "Deal. Although I was probably going to do that regardless. He's a freaking pervert, he is."

"I'll say. Thanks for the heads up in the conference room."

"Not a problem."

Comfortable silence overtook us again until we were settled into the subway car.

We were about halfway to our stop when he suddenly laughed and shook his head. "I still can't believe you named your dog Desdemona. Emilia and Desdemona. You're such a nerd."

"Hey, I'm allowed to be a nerd. I'm a labbie at heart. You, on the other hand... I'm not the big, bad, streetwise, macho detective who recognized the Shakespeare reference right away." I leaned myself up against the support pole. "You sure you don't secretly want to be the next Kenneth Branaugh?"

He laughed and rolled his eyes, the apprehension and tension gone.

"Besides," it was my turn to laugh. "You don't even know half the nerdery that I grew up around. I came out fairly well adjusted considering everything."

He raised an eyebrow, his hand going to the support pole I was leaning on as we began to slow to a stop. Not ours. "You're well adjusted?"

"Hey now," I couldn't help but laugh and smile as we fell back into the friendly ribbing and joking, and both of us began to forget about the hell that was waiting for us next time we walked into work. We had a good thirty-six hours before we had to face the precinct again, and even that was all too soon.

"Oh, and Don?"

"Hmm?"

"If Cap asks, you bought me a new pair of shoes."

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**A/N: Hope you liked it! Whether you did or you didn't, please let me know in a review! =D**


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